


About Time

by Marissaxx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Time Travel, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marissaxx/pseuds/Marissaxx
Summary: When Hermione thought about it, time had never really been on her side.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Remus Lupin, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 57





	1. Nine Months, Two Days

It was over.

Nine months and one day later, it was finally over. There would be no more days spent on the run, looking over her shoulder, watching for the terrifyingly familiar streak of green light. Not another day spent worrying about her friends – _or_ _if they were even alive_. No more days spent sick to her stomach, wondering if _this_ was the last day she would be able to feel the steady pulse under the wrist of a boy with jet black messy hair and piercing green eyes.

No. It was done. The dark lord was gone.

 _Voldemort._ The nagging voice in Hermione’s head corrected, almost reproachful in tone. It would take time to learn to say the name again.

Of course, the battle may have been won, but it hadn’t been without casualties. They had lost friends, family - loved ones.

As if having heard her thoughts, the shoulder under her head twitched and she felt the body beside her shift ever so slightly.

Hermione uncrossed her arms and unclenched fists gripping bloodied and mattered robes. Her hands slid down to wrap around long, calloused fingers, hardened from years of impact and rough with scars from wounds that hadn’t properly healed.

She remembered those same hands, clutched around the arms of a dead body just hours ago.

Pushing the memory to the far corners of her mind, Hermione forced her eyes to survey their surroundings.

It was hard to believe nine years ago, she had climbed these very stairs and gazed around in awe, desperate for a life of adventure and excitement she hadn’t quite known before – having been raised by two painfully normal muggle dentists.

Only nine years, yet it may as well have been a lifetime. The bushy haired, straight-nosed Hermione Granger of then, was a long-forgotten memory.

Where they sat now, was less staircase than it was boulders, from destroyed walls. Only the small patch underneath them remained untarnished.

_A metaphor if she’d ever seen one._

In that moment, sunlight from daybreak poured through shattered windows. Hermione squinted at the light and little dust modes floated through the air, suspended.

Nine months and _two_ days.

She sighed.

“Am I a horrible person for thinking the castle has never looked more beautiful than it does right now?”

Her voice rasped from a lack of use. In fact, Hermione couldn’t really remember the last time she’d spoken aloud.

“No.”

Hermione waited expectantly.

“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart.”

She smiled. It felt strange to do. Like she’d forgotten how.

“I like that one.”

“Me too.”

Her companion shifted again. “We should find Harry.”

Hermione allowed herself to bask in the warmth of sun for another moment, before sitting up.

Remus Lupin straightened and stretched his arm, which had most likely fallen asleep under her weight.

“Sorry.”

His wry expression told her she sounded anything but.

Before she could lead them down the maze of concrete, his hand shot forward.

“ _Hermione_ , you’re bleeding.”

She gave him a confused glance, before following his gaze to her side.

_Well look at that._

She raised her sweater and huffed at the long gash, like someone had raked a sharp object over her skin.

 _Not someone. Something._ The same nagging voice in her head reminded softly.

Remus' eyes flashed. Panic? Familiarity? It was gone before she could decipher it. His eyes narrowed and he floated his hand above the wound.

“It’s not a bite. Just a scratch. From -

The rest of her sentence faded away.

Pain clouded his honey brown irises and she recalled the same memory. Hermione squeezed his forearm. None of them had walked away unscathed. Least of all Remus Lupin. Her heart ached for his loss. When she spoke again, she tried to keep her voice light.

“I’m sure I can find something to clean this up in the infirmary.”

He sighed, nodding, though not before shuttering his expression. He led her quickly down what remained of the stars and in the direction of Hogwarts’ hospital. Hermione tried to keep her gaze from straying toward faded blood on the ground.

Before they turned, she caught a familiar flash of black from the corner of her eye.

Remus stopped abruptly and then looked back at her.

She mustered another smile.

_That’s two._

“Go. He needs you right now. I can find the potion on my own.”

He looked like he wanted to protest.

“Go.” She urged again. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Remus stared at her, eyes bore, unwavering. Hermione thought he might have been trying to communicate something, but then he blinked.

“Alright.”

To her shock, he pulled her towards him. Her heart fluttered. They hadn’t been this close – he hadn’t touched her like this. Not since before…

_Stop._

Hermione didn’t dare to move as he breathed into her hair. “I’ll see you soon.”

And with that, he let her go, walking off in search of Harry’s telltale mop of hair. Only when he’d crossed the doors and disappeared from view, did she release her breath.

“Fuck.”

The infirmary was empty, which was no surprise. The great hall had been set up as a makeshift hospital for the wounded, and a landing area for the dead.

This room was too small.

Besides, mess would have been an understatement. The infirmary looked like a hurricane had torn through, with vials of potions shattered across the floor and beds flipped over. Broken bits from the ceiling covered the ground.

Hermione maneuvered around the mess and entered Madame Pomfrey’s office, eyes searching for the familiar wound-clearing potion. There was a vial in her own bag, but she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d carried it. 

Murmuring under her breath as she scoured the shelves, her fingers knocked into something round. Hermione hadn’t even thought to catch it, before it crashed to the ground.

She blinked slowly down at the painstakingly familiar object. Brain unable to connect with what her eyes were seeing.

_There was no way._

Grains of sand from the tiny orbs coated her shoes. Though shattered, Hermione recognized the object immediately. She’d bloody worn it around her neck for an entire year.

A millisecond passed and before her next inhale, time shifted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart.” - Helen Keller


	2. We're Not In Kansas Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will contain flashbacks to help tell the story. Most of these will be original, some will come from the books/movies. These scenes, and Hermione's inner dialogue, will always appear in italics. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Hermione was not in Kansas anymore.

When the world stilled again, the infirmary wasn’t in disarray. In fact, it looked quite different.

Her breathing grew labored as she stumbled back into Pomfrey’s desk in a panic, gaze whipping wildly back and forth.

It had definitely been a time turner. If there was any doubt before, her new surroundings were evidence enough.

_No. No, no, no, no._

Her mind chanted over and over again.

This couldn’t be happening. She had not just come out the other end of a _war_ only to go back in time and relive it. She’d barely survived it once.

“I can’t do it again. _Please_.” Hermione pleaded aloud. Though there was no one to hear it.

Memories of the battle came back to her in flashes. She saw blood. Smelled the horrid scent of burnt flesh while _his_ manic laugh and tortured screams wrought the air.

_“Reducto!” She heard the woman scream, watching as her attacker flew into the castle wall and then crumple to the ground._

_Her back was turned. Why was her back turned?_

_It was clear she hadn’t seen him, leering from the shadows, inching closer – ready to strike._

_NO!_

_Greyback pounced, so did Hermione._

She gasped.

And death, so much death.

_Too much._

She slid down to the ground and put her head between her legs.

_In and out. Breathe._

This time it was Remus’ voice. Strong and steady. Just like the first time he’d caught her in a panic attack.

_That’s it. Breathe with me. In and out._

Minutes, or hours later - she didn’t know - Hermione’s heart rate finally dropped. When it no longer felt like it would burst from her chest, she raised her head.

The infirmary was still immaculate. No debris, no shattered glass and a door still firmly on its hinges.

Her head was foggy and she felt nauseous, but Hermione pushed herself up to stand.

_Pull yourself together Hermione. You’re not the brightest witch of your age for nothing._

Harry’s voice.

“Okay Hermione, _think_.” She muttered under her breath, and for the first time, she realized the time turner was gone.

“ _Shit_.”

She tried to remember everything she had ever learned about time turners. Everything Dumbledore had told her about them.

 _Goddamn it all_ , her head was still so foggy. 

One thing that was absolute. Time turners _always_ came back with their traveller. Hermione rushed towards the shelf where she’d found the blasted thing. Nothing. She searched the room quickly, throwing drawers and cabinets open.

 _Still nothing._

She stepped out of Pomfrey’s office, giving the floors a once-over. Just in case.

_“The number of times you turn the hourglass corresponds to the number of hours travelled back, but remember, Miss Granger, you must only do so for five hours at most.”_

_A thirteen-year-old Hermione Granger blinked back at the headmaster from across his desk. Curiosity mingled with fear._

_“What happens if you travel more than five hours, Professor?”_

_His eyes sparkled over half moon glasses._

_“Let’s not find out.”_

Five hours.

Hermione stared at the room. Her sense of time may have been skewed, but she was certain that five hours ago, the whole of Hogwarts had shaken under the strain of two great wands meeting for one final, deadly match.

_But then, she hadn’t turned the hourglass, had she._

Hermione stared down at her feet, where the time sands had fallen, when the sphere holding the time turner shattered.

“Impossible.” Hermione muttered. Before she could consider the implications of her new discovery, the doors to the infirmary opened.

Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall froze abruptly, looking unmistakably _not_ injured. In fact, they looked…different...young.

Hermione stared back, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

It was only when Pomfrey gasped, “good heavens child, what happened to you?”, that Hermione remembered her own state. She stared down at her robes. The blood had long-since dried.

“I –

What could she say? Where could she start? What did they know?

_“Mysterious thing time. Powerful, but when meddled with, dangerous.” Dumbledore was pensive, as he stared off in the distance. The clock tower chimed again._

_“Sirius Black is in the top-most cellar of the dark tower.”_

_He turned abruptly. Beside her, Harry jumped._

_“You know the laws, Miss Granger. You must not be seen, and you would do well I feel, to return before this last chime. If not, the consequences are too ghastly to discuss.”_

Hermione’s breath rattled as her mind raced for an excuse. A story. _Anything_.

“I think it’s better that she say nothing, Poppy.”

McGonagall’s voice cut through her thoughts. She turned to meet her old professor’s stern gaze. 

“But Minerva –

“Poppy, please tend to the girl’s wounds - quickly. I will take her to see the headmaster.”

Hermione started. _The girl?_

Pomfrey was hesitant, but when McGonagall said no more, she nodded to herself and fluttered to work. She rushed towards Hermione, leading her to one of the beds. “Let’s take a look dear. So much blood. Heavens –

“It’s…it’s not mine.”

Pomfrey’s hands stilled.

“Not all of it anyway.” Hermione rasped.

She raised her sweater and caught McGonagall blanch, in her peripheral.

“I just need to get this cleaned.”

Pomfrey’s breath rattled.

“It’s not…it’s not a bite.”

In a noticeable attempt to pull herself together, the nurse cleared her throat. “Right. Yes. Of course. I’ll heal that up in a jiffy.”

She disappeared into her office before coming back with a vial of purple liquid.

“All right dear, lie back. This will sting.”

Hermione knew the drill. She discarded her soiled robes and lifted her sweater. The burning sensation was painful, but nothing she hadn’t felt before. It sizzled, before the skin slowly began to heal.

“There we go. the wound has closed, but I’m afraid it’ll scar.”

_One more to add to her collection._

She attempted a gratuitous smile. It was strained, but got the message across.

“Thank you.”

Pomfrey tutted kindly, shooting her one last smile. She nodded towards McGonagall, before disappearing again into her office.

Her old transfiguration professor still looked guarded and there was no familiarity to be found in her gaze.

“Very well, come along. I suppose it’s time you met the headmaster.”


	3. Brightest Witch of Her Age

_I suppose it’s time you met the headmaster._ McGonagall had said.

But she couldn’t possibly mean…

If she was taking her to Dumbledore, Hermione had travelled much further than five hours; and it hadn’t fallen on her that McGonagall didn’t recognize her.

_You haven’t met yet._

She refused to entertain what that meant.

Her heart was pounding against her ribcage again and she wondered what her possibilities were, of making a run for it.

_But then what?_

Where would she go? She didn’t even know _when_ she was, and Hermione figured asking McGonagall would fall under the whole _‘you must not be seen’_ , rule of time travel. Although, she supposed that had been shot to hell.

_Fuck._

It was all just happening too fast and Hermione’s brain was working entirely too slow.

_Well, you haven’t slept in god knows how long, and you still carry the stench of death._

Hermione swallowed the swell in her throat, steeling herself when they turned a corner and stopped in front of a familiar statue.

McGonagall shot a quick glance at Hermione.

“Gobstoppers.”

The statue shifted, turning to reveal a narrow staircase.

McGonagall climbed the steps with Hermione following in suit. Her feet felt like lead.

She steeled herself, but shock waves still moved through her as Dumbledore’s achingly familiar face came into view. When it was clear Hermione’s legs couldn’t move her any further, she froze in place.

Dumbledore’s curious gaze met hers. She wondered what he saw.

“Good evening Minerva. I see you’ve brought a guest.”

“She appeared in the infirmary, Albus, covered in blood _and a scratch from a werewolf, down her side_.”

Dumbledore was silent and Hermione would have squirmed under his thoughtful gaze, had she not been looking at a man who was supposed to be dead.

“I see.”

He said simply.

“I don’t know how she got through the wards Albus, but… _the moon is full tonight_.” She gave him a pointed look.

Dumbledore shook his head. “I don’t think we need to worry about that Minerva. Our measures have held for six years and they will continue to hold. There is no danger there.”

“But then –

“Perhaps it would be more prudent to hear the story from the source herself, don’t you think Minerva?”

Hermione still hadn’t moved.

“Miss –

He raised his brow expectantly, but Hermione shook her head and glanced at McGonagall.

“I don’t…I don’t know if I can...”

Dumbledore blinked. After a beat, he stood, deep blue robes shimmering fluidly as he did. Hermione noticed his beard was shorter and more grey than the powder white, she’d known. “Minerva, may I please ask that you leave us, for the moment?”

The stern-faced professor nodded curtly. “Very well.”

Hermione didn't feel any more comfortable when McGonagall’s form disappeared down the stairs.

“Can I interest you in some lemon drops?”

She almost smiled at the familiarity of the question.

It seemed Dumbledore noticed, because he offered her a kind wink. “I myself can’t get enough of them.”

“I’ve always been more of a savory person.” She answered hesitantly. 

He chuckled. “For the best, I suppose.”

He gestured toward the empty chair in front of his desk and Hermione took it. Stiff at first, but then melting into the soft cushion, really feeling the effects of extreme fatigue.

“Forgive me, you look exhausted, but I’m afraid we must discuss the circumstances around your appearance. You see, it isn’t everyday a young woman appears at Hogwarts, unannounced, in such obvious distress.”

His pale blue eyes felt piercing.

She struggled for a starting point. “I – I’m not…from here. I don’t really know what I can say, without –

He seemed to understand her frustration.

“Let’s start with your name.”

She bit her lip. “My name is Hermione Granger.”

“And are you in danger?”

She thought about it.

“I – don’t think so. Not in any physical danger, anyway.”

His eyes crinkled. “That’s good to hear, although strange, considering your appearance.”

The panic from earlier built inside her, rising to a crescendo. The buzzing in her ear grew louder. How could she explain looking like she came out of the depths of hell?

Hermione rose suddenly and paced around the office like a gazelle. Thoughts whirled around her mind. Finally, she pressed her hands against the desk, leaning forward. She imagined she looked quite mad. She only hoped her eyes hadn't changed color.

If Dumbledore was startled by her outburst, her didn’t show it.

“What I tell you, can’t leave this office.”

The headmaster gave a brisk nod. “Unless doing so jeopardizes the safety of my students, you have my word.”

“First, I _need_ to know – what year is it?”

She steeled herself for the answer and paled when he answered calmly.

“1977.”

She turned away, yanking at her hair. “ _How is this possible_?” She continued to pace the office again, head spinning.

When she finally reclaimed her seat, it was with an air of dejection. She slumped forward.

Dumbledore simply crossed his arms over his desk, the model of patience.

“My name is Hermione Granger, and I’m from the year 2000.”

For the first time, Dumbledore’s eyes reflected something akin to shock.

She waited for the information to process.

“I see.”

He paused for another beat.

“May I ask how?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. It wasn’t on purpose. I…accidentally shattered a time turner and ended up… _here_.”

He nodded slowly, eyes briefly betraying the cogs turning in his brain.

“And the time turner in question?”

“I don’t have it. It disappeared.”

He stood swiftly - clearly deep in thought - and walked towards a sleeping Fawkes.

“Can you send me back?” She finally asked.

His response was somber. “I’m afraid not.”

Hermione's breath rattled and she fought to contain a sob caught in her throat.

_When was the last time she’d cried?_

A vision of herself, hunched over Nymphadora Tonks’ lifeless body, danced in front of her eyes. It was only hours ago.

_But wouldn't be for years to come._

A hand on her shoulder brought her back to the present. Her face was wet, and when she looked up, Dumbledore’s kind face was blurry.

He squeezed lightly.

“Am I stuck here then?”

He contemplated this for a long moment, before straightening.

“How much do you know about time travel, Miss Granger?”

She gave a choked laugh - a huff of air that was more frustration than humor.

“A lot, actually. Which is what makes this even more –

She mimed pulling her hair out. “Professor McGonagall gave me a time turner, in my third year at Hogwarts.”

Hermione recalled the conversation.

“I was…an overachiever. She thought it would help me manage the extra course load. I used it everyday. Which is why I know you can only go back five hours. You _told_ me so yourself.”

Dumbledore raised his finger. “Ah, the laws of time travel dictate that you _should -_ not that it cannot be done. While it is true that time travel can be dangerous - increasingly so, the further back you move - there is still much we don’t understand.”

His eyes blazed.

“You see, time is cyclical and while drastic alterations could prove catastrophic, you would find that the sequence of events which lead to a consequential event, is the product of a reactionary event caused by the initial act.”

Her brows furrowed and her mind strained to keep up.

“So… time is a loop?”

“ _Precisely._ I would hazard a guess that had you asked my future self - in your present; I would have told you about this exact moment – from my past.”

Hermione stared into her lap, trying to understand and struggling for the words. 

“That means…I’ve done this before. I’ve time travelled already.”

It was more of a question than a statement.

“In a matter of speaking.”

Her expression must have been humorous because Dumbledore chuckled. 

“Of course, this is simply a theory and I could be completely mistaken.”

Hermione thought about her next words carefully.

“But…you’re never wrong.”

Dumbledore’s eyes sparkled brighter than she’d ever seen.

“It does happen to be one of my more pesky afflictions, I must admit.”

He rummaged through a stack of books lined along the far wall and then hummed lightly under his breath as he carried three thick tomes back to his desk.

“I am an old man. Which is to say I’ve amassed quite a few interesting reading materials over the years.” He nodded at the books. “These are from my personal collection.”

Hermione’s eyes widened.

“They contain everything one would want to know about time and all her intricacies. I’d be willing to wager a lifetime’s worth of lemon drops that _you_ , my dear, can find something useful in these dusty, old books.”

_Something useful?_

“To be clear, sir -

She shifted forward in her seat. "- you mean a way to travel _forward_ … through _time_.”

Dumbledore’s lip lifted impishly.


	4. Down the Rabbit Hole

“But that’s…that would be…I can’t –

“Something tells me, Miss Granger, there is very little you cannot do.”

She was flattered, but still flabbergasted. What he was talking about - _no one_ had done. She’d never heard of _anyone_ travelling forward in time. 

She shook her head. "If _you've_ never been able to -

“You place more faith in my abilities than I deserve, but alas, my incentive has never been as strong as yours.” He bowed his head towards her. “This is a lot to take in. I understand. Especially, as I assume, you’ve had an eventful evening.”

Hermione was quickly reminded of _her_ present. She’d told Remus she would be right behind him. Was time still moving forward without her? Would Remus go looking for her in the infirmary, only to find a broken time turner? Remus who had just lost his wife, because of -

She shook her head violently. “No. There has to be some way. I have to go back. I can’t stay here - I can’t -

It felt like something was crushing her chest. And she felt clammy. 

_Not again._

Her breathing grew shallow and Dumbledore's office suddenly seemed too small. She leaned over the chair to place her head between her knees.

_“Breathe. In and out. Hermione, do it with me. Breathe.”_

_“I can’t – I can’t –_

_She sobbed._

_“You can. I’m right here and I’ve got you. Breathe.”_

_“I don’t want to die.”_

_There it was, she’d finally said it aloud. The fear that ate at her, deep down inside where she’d hidden it away, because Harry needed her to be strong. Harry, who had lost everything._

_Steady hands cupped her face and brought her eyes to level. Remus knelt in front of her, golden irises blazing._

_“You are not going to die, Hermione. I promise you.”_

_“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” She whispered brokenly. Her fingers tightened around his hand, curled around her cheek._

_His thumb brushed a stray tear._

_“Look at me.”_

_He pressed his forehead to hers. “As long as I’m breathing, I don’t plan to.”_

A warmth spread across her body and the memory faded away. Hermione’s breath rattled. It felt nice, like a warm summer day by the beach. She’d forgotten how that felt.

The present came to clear focus. 

She was still sitting in Professor Dumbledore’s office, curled in a large chair in front of his desk. She blinked at the sight of Fawkes, nestled on her lap. He stared back, cocked his head to the side and then nipped gently at her cheek, before flying back to his cage.

Hermione straightened, ignoring as her back screamed in defiance.

Dumbledore sat patiently. His gaze was warm and compassionate.

“I myself find that Fawkes is a great comfort, in times when I need him most.”

She felt a jolt of shame. “I’m sorry. I get…these panic attacks. I –

She didn’t know what she could say. How could she explain all the horrors of the future?

Dumbledore gave her a sad smile. “I may not know the circumstances; you’ve clearly been through more than a young woman your age should ever have to. And while I am deeply sorry that we cannot change the future, or your past – as it may be. I can offer you some small peace, that while you are here, under this roof, and under my protection, no harm will come to you.”

Hermione nodded gratefully. “I know. Thank you.”

“You’ve graduated from Hogwarts?”

Hermione paused.

“I’m 19, but I didn’t complete my seventh year.”

It was the only answer she could give, without exposing too much.

If Dumbledore was curious, he didn’t press. 

“Well then, while you’re here, if you wish, I can arrange for you to rejoin your old house.”

Hermione thought about it. She couldn’t go anywhere else and if she stayed, she had a higher chance of finding a way back. She _had_ to find a way back.

“You’ll help me…go back?”

He nodded. “In any way I can.”

Hermione breathed.

“I was in Gryffindor.

This seemed to amuse him.

“Yes, I rather expect you were.”

He stood and walked towards a medium sized portrait of a dozing wizard with deep purple robes, hanging just above the large hearth.

“Everard, can you please ask Minerva to return. Miss Granger will be joining her fellow Gryffindor classmates for the remainder of the year.”

 _Oh._ She hadn’t even thought about when in 1977 she’d arrived.

“Professor, what is the date, exactly?”

“Ah, how ill-mannered of me! It is September 26th, 1977, he glanced at the clock. I suppose the 27th, now.” 

Hermione stared out at the full moon, glowing high above the schoolgrounds. He followed the direction of her gaze.

“I don’t mean to pry, but Professor McGonagall had mentioned a werewolf scratch?”

She didn’t answer immediately, instead she walked closer to the window, hooded eyes lingering on the night sky. 

The full moon had always been so beautiful to her, but most especially in the last few years. It was hard to remember a time when it hadn’t been such a large part of who she was.

She sighed. Her body ached. 

“I’m not a werewolf, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Of course. We would not be here, having this conversation, if you were.”

She finally turned away from the window. “No, we wouldn’t.”

It was time to change the subject. “Professor, how do I explain my presence here to others? Can I use my real name?”

Dumbledore sat back behind his desk.

“In my opinion, it would be best to keep the story as close to reality as possible. I find the best lies are those rooted in truth. What do you think?”

Hermione agreed. She thought back to her parents, safe in Australia, and happily unaware they'd ever had a young daughter named Hermione Granger, who grew up to be a witch.

“My last name, I want to change it…to Wilkins. My name is –

She trailed off. Could she explain that in 23 years time, Hermione Granger would be a household name across the magical community?

“As you wish. I think that will work just fine.”

Dumbledore clapped his hands together. “Well then, Hermione Wilkins, welcome to Hogwarts.”

They'd just finalized a plausible background story, when McGonagall arrived to collect her. With a subtle reminder to be careful, Dumbledore excused them, eyes twinkling as they descended the staircase.

The walk back to Gryffindor tower was quiet and familiar. But every time she felt even the slightest jolt of excitement at being a student at Hogwarts again, her inner voice reminded her that she was not actually back, she was stuck.

“- robes have been left for you on your bed.”

Hermione pushed her thoughts aside. “Thank you.”

She suddenly realized she had nothing with her. No pyjamas, toiletries, school supplies. No _money_.

McGonagall seemed to sense her concern and continued. “A trunk will be provided for you with all your essentials. I am your head of house; should you need anything, let me know and we can arrange to provide it for you.”

“I don’t have any money.” Hermione said quietly.

McGonagall stopped. Her eyes narrowed in thought, before meeting her eyes.

“If Professor Dumbledore agrees to it, you can work as my teaching assistant. In exchange for helping mark your classmate’s papers and helping me with my transfiguration classes, Hogwarts will provide you with a small income.”

Hermione’s eyes widened and she rushed to keep astride with McGonagall again.

_Teach transfiguration? It was almost too perfect._

“I - yes! That would be wonderful. Thank you!”

McGonagall’s lip tugged upwards, the lines in her face softened ever so slightly.

“Good. I’ll speak with the headmaster in the morning. In the meantime, I suggest you clean up. Your living mates may not be so accommodating if their first impression of you is caked in dirt and blood.”

_Right. First things first. Take a shower._

A shower. A simple thing felt like such a luxury. When had that happened?

_Since you spent nine months as an undesirable, living out of a tent._

Her shoulders sagged.

How many hours now since she’d gotten any sleep?

“You’ll meet your classmates tomorrow –

McGonagall was speaking again and Hermione, in her bone-tired state almost missed it.

“ – Miss. Evans, whom you will be sharing a room with is Head Girl. She will be able to help you settle in…”

McGonagall kept speaking like the world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

The transfiguration professor was halfway down the corridor when she realized Hermione was no longer with her.

“Miss Wilkins?”

She turned and frowned. A few steps back, Hermione stood frozen, face pale and eyes wide.

“Evans… as in _Lily Evans_?” Hermione rasped.

McGonagall’s brows furrowed. “Yes, do you know her?”

_This couldn’t be happening._

1977\. 23 years. Of course. _Of course._ How could she have been so _stupid_. How had she not put it together before? She wasn’t born yet, not for another three years. But Remus was 20 years older than her. Three years before she was born, he’d have been finishing his last year at school.

 _“I don’t know how she got through the wards Albus, but_ … _the moon is full tonight_.”

She’d arrived on the night of a full moon – with a bloody werewolf scratch. Only a short distance away from where Remus Lupin was in his transformed state.

_Dumbledore shook his head. “I don’t think we need to worry about that Minerva. Our measures have held for six years and they will continue to hold. There is no danger there.”_

Measures.

She’d stupidly thought he’d been referring to Hogwarts’ wards.

_"I told you, months ago, that the Whomping Willow was planted the year I came to Hogwarts. The truth is that it was planted because I came to Hogwarts."_

How long had she known about the bloody tree? How many nights had she spent with Remus, talking about his transformations through his school years? How they’d planted it at Hogwarts, _specifically_ for him?

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck._

Tomorrow, when she walked into her first class, a 17-year-old Remus Lupin would be there - and he wouldn’t be alone.

_“So… time is a loop?”_

“ _Precisely._ _I would hazard a guess that had you asked my future self - in your present; I would have told you about this exact moment – from my past.”_

Hermione felt sick. If Dumbledore’s theory was correct, then Remus had known all along.

_And said nothing. Not even when –_

No. She refused to let her mind wander there. Certainly not now.

“Miss Wilkins.”

Suddenly remembering that she wasn’t alone, Hermione attempted to collect herself.

“Are you feeling alright? You look ill.”

It took a great measure of energy to shake her head. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m fine. It’s just been a long night.”

She didn’t look at all convinced, but regardless, McGonagall led them down the stairs and in front of a portrait she’d seen a million times before.

The fat lady hadn’t changed at all.

“Professor. A little late to be wandering around.”

McGonagall nodded. “Special circumstances. Brevity is the soul of whit.”

_How Ravenclaw of them._

The portrait flew open to reveal the Gryffindor common room. If Hermione squinted hard enough, she could almost see two heads in the corner, black and ginger, huddled over a chess set. She blinked the moisture from her eyes, but one traitorous tear escaped. She swiped at it quickly, before McGonagall could see it. 

“You will find the seventh-year girls’ dormitory up the stairs to your left. Breakfast will be served in the great hall tomorrow morning.” Her face softened uncharacteristically. “Will you be okay, Miss Wilkins?”

Hermione nodded, attempting a placating smile. “I’ll be fine, Professor. Thank you.”

“Good. I will see you tomorrow then. Get some rest.” And with a final curt nod, McGonagall was gone, and Hermione was alone in the common room.

_She pushed frantically through the crowd, gasps and shrieks echoed around her. When she was finally through, the ground fell out from beneath her feet._

_The Dark Lord's voice carried clearly across the distance. “Harry Potter - is dead!”_

_Beside her, Ginny gave a tortured scream that reverberated across the grounds. The sound sent chills down her spine and Hermione shook uncontrollably. She barely noticed when Arthur surged to catch his daughter, before she hit the ground._

_No. Not Harry. Please Merlin, no._

_Someone else was screaming. It wasn’t until a voice at her ear urged her to calm, that she realized the sound was coming from her._

_She struggled to break free from arms wrapped around her like a vice._

_“Let me go. Let me go.” She shrieked, practically growling. Her eyes flashed._

_“Calm down. Hermione, stop. Listen.”_

_She didn’t want to listen. She wanted to tear into Voldemort’s sneering face. She fought against his grip, but it was pointless. Remus' arms were relentless._ _They tightened, almost painfully, around her middle. “Listen, Hermione.”_

_Listen? Listen to what? What was he trying to say?_

_“Listen.” He urged again._

_When it finally seemed like she’d stopped fighting. Remus removed one arm. His lips hovered above her ear. “Breathe.”_

_It was only when she closed her eyes and allowed everything to fade into the background, that she heard it. The faintest sound -_

Hermione woke with a start. 

Her breath came out in gasps and she looked around in a frenzy. She was lying in bed, heavy maroon curtains hung around her. She tore them away; they were suffocating.

_Where am I?_

_Gringotts, a dragon, Hogwarts – blood, so much blood. Finally, peace and then – and then –_

It came back to her in a rush.

She’d been sent to 1977.

Hermione breathed deeply in an attempt to settle her shot nerves, taking a moment to survey her surroundings. Never having had the chance to step in the seventh-year dorm in her own time, she noted it looked quite similar to the others. Its occupants had added personal touches to make it theirs. Vases of flowers, picture frames (both moving and still) and posters littered the room.

She slid off the bed and looked around. The dorm was empty. A quick glance at the overhead clock, told her everyone had probably already gone down for breakfast.

Hermione’s heart leapt to her throat when she read the name engraved in the trunk at the foot of the best next to hers.

She knelt forward and traced the curly letters.

Lily Evans.

_Oh Harry._

Her throat felt tight and Hermione had to pull herself away. She would likely see many familiar faces today. She couldn’t break down every time.

_How am I supposed to do this? How do I walk around and pretend this is normal? Pretend like I don’t know them?_

She slumped against her baseboard.

The past was on a collision course for the future, and she was smack in the middle of it.

_Remus._

At some point, she was going to run into a younger version of a man who’d quickly grown to become one of the most important people in her life. Their relationship was complicated enough as it was, without adding this to the mix.

And then there was the matter of Sirius Black. The Sirius of her time, had been reserved, broody and shrouded in darkness. But Remus had told her stories of a happier man, one fiercely loyal, with a shocking capacity to laugh and love, given his upbringing. She’d seen glimpses of that man. Sometimes it was while he shared stories of his past with Harry; mostly it was when Remus rolled his eyes in exasperation at something stupid he’d done or said - and sometimes, _sometimes_ she’d had the feeling it was when his eyes met hers, when he’d shoot her a crinkled smile, mischievous, with something inscrutable. She’d always thought it was in recollection of two young students, a hippogriff, and a grand escape. But maybe it had been something else.

Time travel made her head hurt.

It was all wrong.

It shouldn’t have been her, transported back, forced to share living quarters with her best friend's dead mother, and sit in a classroom with a group of young men who were blissfully unaware of the nightmares their future held.

_And Peter._

Something inside her moved, aching to be released - to exact justice and inflict pain for the ultimate treason he would commit in a few short years.

Could she sit in the same room as Peter Pettigrew, without screaming ‘traitor’ at the top of her lungs?

 _“You know the laws, Miss Granger...t_ _he consequences are too ghastly to discuss.”_

She _did_ know. If she tried to change anything, it could change everything.

_You could lose the war._

But on the other hand, it could also change nothing. If she had indeed been here before, and if she had tried to interfere, clearly it had changed nothing.

_Time is a loop._

The chime of the clock tower made her jump, and she swore under her breath as she realized she was going to be late on her first day.

Somewhere, a thirteen-year-old Hermione Granger was clutching her chest with indignation.

She was quick to get ready, throwing on her Gryffindor robes and stuffing the bag she’d found in her trunk, with quills and parchment. When she reached into her trunk again, it was to find three thick tomes, nestled at the bottom.

_Dumbledore’s books._

She stared at them with wide eyes, hands hovering, not quite touching the soft leather covers.

There was no doubt the books would lead her down a rabbit hole; the question was, _what lay at the other end_?


	5. All are gone, the old familiar faces

By the time Hermione arrived at Professor McGonagall’s office, the crowds of students in the corridors had dwindled.

McGonagall raised her brow pointedly.

“Sorry – late.” Hermione gasped, in attempt to catch her breath. “Overslept – had to run.”

Truth be told, she’d become quite distracted as she’d sprinted past the great hall, taking a wide detour in a studious attempt to avoid the entrance hall. She wasn’t quite prepared to come face to face with the fact that in her current present, the events of last night's battle were nothing but a bad nightmare.

“Yes, I can see that.”

She squirmed under McGonagall’s gaze. 

“Very well, here is your schedule. I’ve spoken to Headmaster Dumbledore and he has agreed to our arrangement. You’ll notice that in place of spares, you will be assisting me with my lower year transfiguration classes.” 

Sure enough, she read _‘Transfiguration Assist.’_ in between classes on Tuesday’s, Thursday’s and - she tried not to make a face - even Sunday mornings. 

“Thank you Professor. I really do appreciate this.” Hermione felt genuinely grateful – even if she _did_ have to wake up early every Sunday morning.

McGonagall offered a dismissive noise of approval. “You can thank me by not being _late_ , which you _will_ _be_ for your first class if you do not _make haste_.”

Hermione consulted her schedule again. Potions was first. She grimaced, that meant she had to go all the way down to the dungeons.

When she looked up, McGonagall’s attention had already turned to the papers on her desk. She crossed off something written on the first piece of parchment, before murmuring coolly. “I imagine if you run, you can make it before the last bell chimes.”

McGonagall was right and Hermione screeched to a stop at the entrance to the Potion’s classroom with not a moment to spare. Her heart threatened to fly out of her chest, and it had almost nothing to do with the fact that she’d just run the distance of a Quidditch field.

Brushing fingers through her hair in attempt to smooth down her wild curls, Hermione kept her gaze firmly towards the front of the room where Professor Slughorn hummed at his desk, shuffling vials in preparation for the class. She felt, rather than saw the heat of more than 20 eyes, staring openly out of curiosity. The sound of chatter slowly dulled as people turned. She was steadfast, refusing to make eye contact with anyone, fearing who her eyes might fall upon.

As if noticing the sudden drop in volume, Slughorn turned. Eyes widening when he spotted her.

“Hello.”

She tried not to think about the fact that the entire class was listening.

“Erm, my name is Hermione sir, I’m the –

He brightened and clapped his hands together. “Of course, _of course_! You must be Miss Wilkins. Albus did mention we should expect a new face today. Welcome! _Welcome!._ Find a seat anywhere, we’re just about to begin -

Her heart was beating so fast, she could practically feel the blood rushing to her ears.

“- let’s see, _here’s a spot_ , right next to our _Head Girl_ , Miss Evans - if you will.”

Hermione had never felt such a strong urge to hit a professor before. But she should have known, time had never really been on her side.

She opened and closed her fists, counted to five, took a steeling breath, turned, and then stared right into the eyes of Remus Lupin.

_Fuck._

Her reaction was inevitable. Hermione’s eyes blew wide open and her throat constricted painfully.

Those familiar brown eyes with golden flecks could only belong to a face so beautifully familiar – yet _so different._

It was only when the dark-haired boy beside him, whipped his head back and forth suspiciously between Hermione and Remus, did she quickly tear her gaze away.

They fell on Slughorn, who was patting the seat next to a girl with long auburn hair and striking green eyes.

_Oh._

Lily Evans was undeniably beautiful and surprisingly… _different_ , than what she’d imagined.

Hermione had always pictured Ginny Weasley, with green eyes. But Ginny, although fierce, was slight, with red hair that tended to look orange and a girlish baby-face.

Lily radiated a mature strength, and Hermione could see clearly now, how this woman would one day stand in the face of death, unflinchingly. Though kind, her eyes held a piercing wisdom and under her gaze, Hermione felt exposed.

She smiled when Hermione took the proffered seat, and she stretched her hand out.

“Hi, I’m Lily. It’s nice to meet you.”

Her voice was deeper than she’d anticipated, almost husky.

Hermione gave a tight smile in return. “Hermione.”

“Is this your first day, Hermione?”

She nodded, before busying herself with taking out the contents of her bag. 

Unflappable, Lily continued.

“We would have waited for you this morning. It’s quite intimidating at first – I should know…”

_Her laugh was like bells._

“…but your curtains were closed, and we didn’t want to disturb you…”

_In other words, Lily knew about the silencing charm Hermione had cast over her bed._

“…I didn’t know how late you’d gotten in.”

Hermione was saved from having to respond, as Slughorn decided at that moment to begin the lesson. She’d never been more grateful for the man’s capacity to talk. The rest of the class passed uneventfully, but Hermione became more tense with each passing minute, vividly aware of who sat beside her - and behind her. When the class finally ended, Hermione cursed herself for having been so distracted. Although really, what would a seventh-year potions class teach her, that she didn’t already know.

She hurried to pack her bag, but before she could rush out, Lily’s voice stopped her.

“Would you like me to show you around before our next class? I’d be more than happy to.”

Hermione swallowed the swell in her throat, hitched her bag higher over her shoulder and plastered the most genuine smile she could muster, before turning around.

They were almost equally level, but Lily had at least an inch and a half over her.

“I think I can manage it. Thanks.”

She all but ran out of the classroom, but not before she heard a deep voice ring out.

“What was that all about?”

Hermione found herself with a clear, ironclad resolve as she sat alone in the corner of an empty classroom, waiting for the rest of the students to file in. She would keep her nose down, maintain her distance, go through the required motions, and do _whatever_ it took, to get back to her own time, _as quickly as possible_.

“This seat taken?”

_Bugger._

Hermione stared at Sirius Black.

He was ruggedly handsome, even in his youth – more so in fact - with none of the deep-rooted darkness that haunted the man she’d known, and all of the self-assured charms of a seventeen-year-old boy. 

She pursed her lips and responded dryly. “Do you _see_ a name written on the table?

He smirked and draped himself over the chair beside her.

“I’m Sirius Black.”

She eyed him wearily. “Hermione Gra - Wlkins.”

He smiled. “That’s a weird name.”

Hermione almost laughed. “I’m sorry, this coming from someone named _Sirius Black_?”

He let out a bark of laughter. “You’re alright. And point taken. Muggleborn then?”

She stiffened. “ _Pardon me_?”

Sirius quickly raised his hands up in defence. “I mean nothing by it, _believe_ me. Just – I’ve never heard that name before and _pureblood_ families - well let’s just say there’s a lot of name repetition.” His face told her exactly what it was he thought about pureblood families.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but my mother is a witch.” She felt uncomfortable with the lie. Hermione was proud of her heritage, had fought tooth and nail for it - almost to the death - but she had to maintain her cover story.

She was reminded unexpectedly of Alastor Moody.

_Constant vigilance._

Sirius shot her a toothy grin and shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”

“ _For heavens sake_ , Sirius, are you bothering her already?! _Is he bothering you_?”

Sirius clutched his chest dramatically.

“Now Lilikins, is that anyway to speak to your future brother-in-law?”

Hermione almost choked and Lily Evans’ eyes flashed dangerously at the boy beside her, but Hermione didn’t miss the light blush that spread across the girl’s cheeks – and apparently neither had Sirius, who only smirked.

Lily swiped him across the head, huffing indignantly.

“ _Ow_!” He massaged his head and turned to something behind them. “Prongs, tell your girlfriend to stop hitting me.”

Hermione swallowed the swell in her throat when a boy, almost identical to Harry, appeared. “Lily, darling, stop hitting Sirius.” He said deadpanned.

Sirius was smug, wagging his eyebrows at the girl in question.

“- you know how soft and fragile he is.”

His smug smile dropped instantly.

“ _Oi._ ”

Sirius turned back towards Hermione and shot her a filthy grin. “Don’t listen to him. In fact, on the contrary, I am _incredibly hard_.”

This time it was Hermione’s turn to blush. Deeply.

Was _Sirius Black…hitting on her?_

She felt dizzy.

He was laughing. “A blusher eh, we love that. I’m curious, exactly how far does that blush go?”

“SIRIUS ARTICULUS BLACK!”

Lily looked scandalized. She whirled around in outrage. “ _James_! This _poor_ girl. _Will- you- contain him_?!”

“ _Al_ right, that’s enough out of you Padfoot, up you get.” To Hermione’s amusement, James Potter grabbed Sirius by the collar and dragged him up, unceremoniously dumping him into a different chair - _away_ from Hermione. Both James and Lily looked at each other, alarmed, when Hermione’s shoulders shook.

She lifted her head suddenly and collapsed in a fit of laughter.

Lily looked shocked, but James’ lip curled up at the corner.

“I really apologize for him. I’m afraid, he hasn’t been housetrained yet.”

“ _Oi!_ ” Behind him, Sirius looked put out, tucking his chin in hand.

Hermione was still gasping for breath when James stretched his hand in front of her. 

“James Potter, by the way.”

He gave a crooked smile that reminded her of Harry’s, but there was something different about the way he carried it. _Lighter almost, with a hint of mischief._ Hermione came to a sobering realization that, in an ideal world, this is what Harry’s smile should have looked like.

Their resemblance and the sudden ache she felt at missing her best friend, brought down all her defences

She took the hand and tried not to cry. _They must have thought her mad as it was._

“If this idiot ever bothers you again, just let me know and I’ll give him a good arse kicking.”

“ _Again_. _Oi_! I’m sitting _right here_.”

“And you’ll _stay_ there.” Lily muttered darkly under her breath.

The look she shot Hermione before taking a seat towards the front of the class, was far more kind, even though Hermione had practically brushed her off before.

As the rest of the class filed in, Hermione withdrew into herself again. She willed herself to disappear into the shadows and waited with bated breath each time someone new walked inside.

It was pointless of course, if her breath didn’t give it away, her scent certainly would - _especially_ a day after the full moon, when everything was still so heightened.

Her heart gave a stutter when he finally appeared, hands buried deep in his pockets, listening attentively as the boy beside him spoke animatedly.

She noticed his brows furrow, before his gaze met hers briefly. It was quick, over before she even had time to blink, and soon enough, he was sitting in front of Sirius and James. He and Peter Pettigrew turned in their seats when the other boys leaned forward to speak in quick, hushed voices.

The last few students trickled in, a fair-haired girl who bee-lined to take the empty seat beside Lily, a golden haired girl who claimed the seat in front of her and another girl, this one with cropped, dark hair and familiar features. She collapsed beside the golden-haired girl, waving the other three away when they began to bombard her with questions.

_Hermione knew her. But from where?_

Her thoughts were interrupted when she caught the Marauders glance at her in unison. Like a magnet, she met _his_ eyes again. He looked intrigued – in that subdued, laid back demeanour that she knew so well. Hermione felt a tingle in her spine.

She _knew_ those eyes. _Missed_ those eyes. Had, for a brief, uninhibited moment, become _lost_ in those eyes –

_Stop._

Sirius hit him upside the head, and Remus broke their gaze to scowl at the offending party. They dove back into hushed whispers.

Too scared to pay much attention earlier, she found herself drinking in this younger Remus, feeling emboldened now that she was tucked away in the safety of the darkened corner. He looked tired and if she focused hard enough, she knew she would find the lightest rings around his eyes. Last night’s transformation had worn him, but not like it did in her time. Or at least, the way it had _before_.

_This_ Remus looked tired, but there was a stillness underneath. A sense of peace and belonging.

He would age well. The Remus of her time – _she refused to call him ‘her’ Remus, he’d never been hers_ – had a striking beauty to him, even with the scars that littered his body.

In youth, he was all innocence, angles and _light_.

She wondered if his hands felt the same.

_Stop._

Hermione shook away forbidden memories and forced herself to pay attention, taking out the textbook titled ‘Dark Arts and Magical Creatures’.


	6. Eyes Wide Shut

In an attempt to avoid the great hall and its dwellers, Hermione grudgingly took her lunch in the Hogwarts kitchen. When the house elves looked at her like she’d said the most insulting thing, after she insisted on getting her own food, Hermione gave up and slumped into a seat along one of the long narrow tables.

This seemed to placate them, and they barely gave her a second glance, before placing a plate of hot food and a glass of pumpkin juice in front of her. She assumed she wasn’t the first to have found the painting of a fruit bowl with a ticklish pear. She recalled something Remus had told her, about the Marauders, and how they would sneak to the kitchens to get him food before a full moon, when he felt too unwell to sit in the great hall.

Thoughts of the Marauders suppressed her appetite. How was she supposed to ignore them when they wouldn’t stay away from her? Not to mention the fact that she would be sleeping in a bed not two feet away from Lily Evans, every night, until she found a way back.

_If you can find a way back._

Hermione ignored the stupid voice nagging at the back of her head. She’d accomplished in three years, things most couldn’t in a lifetime. No. She was going to live, breathe and bleed the books Dumbledore had provided, front to cover, until she found an answer.

If Albus _bloody_ Dumbledore had even the slightest thought that she could, it meant something. It _had to_ mean something.

She forced a piece of chicken into her mouth and thought about the future. Was it still moving forward or was she suspended in a moment in time? If she returned, would she be able to go back to the exact moment she left? These questions left her queasy and eventually, Hermione pushed the plate of food away from her.

Perhaps it was for the best. If she had to spend an afternoon of classes with her best friend’s dead parents, a murdered old friend, a traitor and a young Remus Lupin, the less contents in her stomach, the better.

Hermione was early to her Transfiguration class, a feat that did not go unnoticed. The younger version of her old mentor stared approvingly over her glasses.

“I trust you’ve found your way around?”

She’d always had an uncanny way of knowing exactly what her students were up to.

Hermione coughed. “Yes. It almost feels like home.”

For a moment, she thought McGonagall would smile.

“Good.” McGonagall pushed away from her desk and set a pile of papers on her desk. “These are from my third-year students. They were asked to write a paper on the basic transfiguration of mid-sized, solid objects. I’d like your assistance in reviewing them.”

Hermione leafed through the first few, squinting at some of the atrocious writing and blinking at a sentence or two that was painfully confusing.

“We missed you at lunch.”

She tried not jump. Hermione looked around and was shocked to notice that the class was almost full. She’d been so lost in concentration.

_One day in and you’ve already lost your instincts._

She turned to Lily, who had taken the seat behind her.

“Oh, yeah. I wasn’t really hungry.”

“Well, hopefully you’ll join us for dinner? Hogwarts really does have the best suppers.”

It took a lot of restraint not to outright decline her offer.

If she noticed her reservation, Lily didn’t comment on it, instead turning to her friend.

“This is Marlene by the way and back here are Mary and Alice. You’ll be sharing a dorm with all of us.”

“We apologize in advance.” The familiar girl Hermione had noticed earlier, quipped playfully, waving cheerfully from the seat behind Lily.

It dawned on her then. This was Alice Longbottom. Neville’s mum.

_In four years, you and your future husband are going to be tortured to insanity by a woman who is probably sitting in this class, and I can’t do or say a thing about it._

“Hello.” Hermione said instead.

Definitely a good idea that that she hadn’t finished lunch. Her stomach churned.

“Speak for yourself. I’m a fantastic roommate.” Marlene drawled, flashing Hermione a picture-perfect smile.

_Harry clutched the photo tight, as though it would disappear if he even slightly loosened his grip. Sirius stared down sadly and watched the original members of the Order of the Phoenix wave back. He ran his finger over the face of a beautiful woman, with a full head of long, pale-blonde hair._

_“That’s Marlene McKinnon. She was close friends with your mother at Hogwarts. She was killed two weeks after this photo was taken. They got her whole family.”_

“Right - clothes strewn everywhere, knocking in at ungodly hours and drenching the entire bathroom, every time you leave the shower – how would we ever live without you.” Mary Macdonald scoffed.

_And you, you’re going to fall under the Imperius curse, kill an entire muggle family, and then die at the hands of an Auror._

So really, it was just your average, everyday transfiguration class. 

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to quell the nausea.

A cool hand landed on her forearm, startling her back to the present. She blinked to find all three girls staring at her in concern. Lily frowned. “You okay? You look a little green?”

There was something about Lily asking if _she_ was okay, that made Hermione want to both laugh hysterically and burst into tears.

Perhaps she _was_ going mad. 

She pulled her arm away, feeling proud of herself when she managed to elicit a small smile. “I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

Marlene frowned. “I can imagine. You got in so late.” She turned to the other girls. “What time was it that we went to sleep, about twelve, yeah?”

Alice nodded. “They should have given you the day to get settled. I can hardly function, and I got a solid seven hours in.”

“It’s fine, I’m used to it.”

_Fuck._

She really needed to stop talking.

Hermione turned in her seat and tried to focus on the papers in front of her again. She willed McGonagall to start the class. Thankfully, it seemed someone had heard her pleas. McGonagall tapped her wand against her desk, gesturing for quiet.

“If you would all turn to page twenty-five of your textbooks, we’ll get started.”

Hermione was pleasantly surprised when the topic was human transfiguration. Aesthetic transformations had always interested her back in Hogwarts, and during their time on the run, it had become some of the most important magic she’d done. Absently, Hermione scrolled through the pages – eye colour, nose, lips, even eyebrows. The ghost of a smile played along her lips as she read, ‘ _changing the size of your teeth can sometimes prove tricky…_ ’. That particular spell would have been useful when she was younger.

She stopped when she reached a page that read ‘ _Changing your Hair Colour_ ’. Hermione closed her eyes and pictured Tonks, happily changing her hair to entertain four young teenagers. Grinning from ear to ear as they demanded a particularly ghastly shade of green – _no,_ a fiery red. Yes, that. She looked like a Weasley.

It felt so long ago. It was one of the last memories she had, before they'd all been forced to grow up. 

Discreetly, she swiped at her cheek, brushing away a stray tear.

Nymphadora Tonks deserved more than her tears.

_It should have been you._

It should have, but it wasn’t. Instead, Hermione had been left to pick up the pieces, and then she’d gone and shattered a time turner.


	7. The Musings of Antioch de Alconchel

_About Time_

_By Antioch de Alconchel_

_-To my beloved. Lost in time, though not from my heart, nor from my mind._

_There are few things as unknown to us as time, except perhaps the inner workings of the mind. Why, for example, does a perfectly normal person, wake on a seemingly inconspicuous morning, and decide they will slaughter an entire village? Muggles, with their studies and their terms – who have yet to understand a world, far more vast than imaginable – claim to have found the answers. I’ve read their findings – their theories and their science. The history of psychology as a scholarly study of the mind and behavior, dates back to the Ancient Greeks. But the mind - an invisible, transcendent world of thought, feeling, attitude, belief, and imagination - does not adhere to the laws of science._

_These are the musings of an old man, who lies awake at night._

_Time._

_Everyday it seems to weigh heavier on me, that I am running out of it._

_Time has always been a fleeting friend, coming and going as she pleases, always there, but somehow out of reach. She taunts me, flirts with me, has taken away that which was dearest to me – but she never quite comes close enough to touch. I wonder sometimes, if the boundaries of my mind, restrict me from truly unlocking her full potential. Had I, for example, been born a shepherd’s son, would my imagination be so confined then, to the world I know?_

_Who is to say. Perhaps a shephard’s son._

_To master time. Such an alluring thought. To mould it and shape it to your whim. If time is in fact an idea, would it then be time at all?_

Hermione rubbed at her eyes and pushed the book away.

_More like ramblings from a mad man._

The memory of Dumbledore’s excitement when he’d given her the books, drew a scowl. How would this _Antioch de Alonchel_ and his philosophical _musings_ help her create a spell from nothing? She let her head hang back against the wall and massaged her temples.

She hadn’t expected it to be easy, but at this very moment, it seemed impossible.

Before the noise in her head became too much, she slammed the book shut, whispered a cloaking incantation, and shoved it back in her bag.

It was probably a good idea to get a proper night’s sleep anyway. A cloudy mind would be of no help to her. She stood and looked around the room. The Room of Requirement had given her exactly what she’d asked for, a peaceful and safe place to read. It looked a lot like the Gryffindor common room. For a moment, Hermione wished she could just stay there, until she found her way back; ignore the world outside, where everything was just… _wrong_. It had only been one day, but she already felt the weight of all her secrets building on her shoulders.

And her shoulders were so very tired.

But people would become suspicious if she hid herself away, and suspicion was the opposite of low profile.

With this thought, she left the makeshift common room and walked back to the real Gryffindor common room. Thankfully, the late hour meant it was empty.

Hermione climbed up to the girls’ dormitory, stripped away her clothes and shuffled into bed. She had just enough energy left to pull the hangings closed and cast a nonverbal silencing charm; before succumbing to sleep.

_Hermione thrashed against Greyback’s hold, helplessly watching as cloaked figures carried her friends further away from her._

_If she could just muster enough energy…_

_But Hermione was so drained. Mentally and physically. She had no energy left, least of for what she needed to do. She barely noticed Ron screaming her name, or Harry struggling against his own captors._

_He was saying something. What was he saying?_

_“NO, it’s me you want - you can have me - take me!”_

_“If she dies under questioning. I’ll take you next.”_

_The voices sounded so far away, distorted, like they were coming from the end of a tunnel. She fought to keep her eyes open and felt Greyback’s tongue at her throat, his breath tickled her ear. Her skin crawled._

_“You smell so lovely, and you taste even better. Once she’s finished, you think Bellatrix will let me have you next?”_

_Her stomach lurched and if there’d been anything inside, it would have spilled out._

_Happy place. Go to your happy place Hermione._

_She chanted over and over in her mind. Even as an excruciating pain came over her - even as her body spasmed and her head hit marble._

_Happy place. Go to your happy place._

_“HERMIONE! HERMIONE!”_

_It was too much. She could hear herself screaming and pleading, but she suddenly couldn’t remember why. Where was she? Why was everything so cold?_

_Lupin Cottage. She was at Lupin Cottage. It wasn’t cold here at all though. On the contrary, only a soft summer breeze pierced the still air. The moon was out. It was full and beautiful - so peaceful here. She couldn’t understand why she’d been screaming. She walked across the wide span of the garden, her feet bare, brushing through grass. It felt nice. Like a soft caress. She could smell him now, he was close. So close -_

_“HERMIONE! HERMIONE!”_

Hermione jerked awake with a gasp. She folded over and heaved.

Malfoy Manor faded away and Hermione grabbed at her covers to make sure they were real; pulled at her hair to confirm it wasn’t coated with her blood.

She was safe, in her bed at Hogwarts.

_Just a nightmare._

_Not a nightmare – a memory._

Hermione stifled a sob and pressed her fist in her mouth, even though she knew no one could hear her.

_Breathe. In and out. Breathe._

Slowly, minute after minute, her breathing grew less shallow, but Ron’s screams still echoed through her mind. Tearing her drenched blankets away, she pulled open the hangings and stared out at an empty room. Although the clock on the far wall told her it was well past sunrise, the dorm was dark; someone had pulled the curtains closed.

Hermione gave a sigh of relief. Undoing the silencing charm, she shook away horrible memories and quickly prepared for the day.

No one tried to speak to her that morning. The Marauders kept their distance and Lily and the girls only shot her kind smiles and friendly waves, before following suit.

Hermione was grateful. She didn’t have the energy to pretend. Not today.

After taking lunch again in the kitchen, Hermione set off to McGonagall’s classroom. It was her first class as a teacher’s assistant.

On the bright side, she probably wouldn’t run into any familiar faces, but on the other hand, Hermione didn’t know how useful she’d be in her current mood.

“Good afternoon Miss Wilkins.”

McGonagall sat at her desk again, a stack of papers lined up in front of her. Hermione remembered her own pile, still waiting to be reviewed.

She gestured towards a small desk beside hers. “You’ll be sitting here today.”

Hermione nodded. It felt weird sitting on this side of the classroom.

“You’ll get used to it.”

McGonagall stared back knowingly. “I felt the same when I first started. It can be quite jarring.”

“Yeah…jarring.” She repeated absently, scanning the classroom again. Hermione found that she didn’t mind it actually. Not in the slightest.

“It’ll be third years today and first years on Tuesdays. Here’s a copy of the textbook they’ve been working with. I’ll give you the reading for the first years, after class.”

Unsurprisingly, the textbook was different from the one she’d had in her own third year.

It had been 23 years, after all. 

“I’m assuming you learned this material while you’d been…homeschooled.”

Right, Hermione _Wilkins_ was supposed to have grown up in Australia, where she’d been homeschooled by her magical mother.

Something in McGonagall’s voice made her feel like she didn’t quite believe Hermione’s story.

“Yes, my mother was very… thorough.”

She could have sounded more convincing.

Nevertheless, McGonagall gave a curt nod. “Good.” She flipped Hermione’s book open.

“We will continue here today. You may want to brush up.”

The page read, ‘ _Animagi and the Law’_.

Hermione blinked.

Suddenly, the impending class seemed much more interesting.

By the end of the day, Hermione was drained. By the end of the week, she was exhausted _and_ no closer to finding a way back, than the first moment she’d landed in 1977. Antioch de Alconchel’s book had continued with his musings, often running on tangents, and sounding increasingly more like an erratic old man, attempting to hold onto his youth.

De Aloconchel had described, in detail, his wife’s tragic passing. She’d died trying to protect a muggle boy, when a deranged wizard attempted to massacre an entire community of them. He recounted the full investigation, how the murderer had been tried and sentenced to a Dementor’s Kiss. He wrote about his relentless pursuit to discover magic that could bring her back and how his hunt for a miracle eventually led him to whispers of time magic. Except, that’s all it had been.

Hermione knew enough about time travel, to know the Time-Reversal charm was created long after de Aloconchel, which meant he’d been unsuccessful in his quest. It felt pointless to continue reading.

Hermione slammed the book shut. It took a lot of restraint not to lob it across the room. The fire crackled and Hermione wondered what Dumbledore would say if she ‘accidentally’ set the book on fire.

“It’s hopeless. I’m never going home.”

She curled into a ball and melted into the shaggy rug and soft cushions beneath her. Sleeplessness was taking its toll.

The more her frustration peaked, and insomnia wore at her, the cozier the Room of Requirement became, as though it was actively trying to help her find some peace.

The issue wasn’t the location though, it was the _time_.

Hermione remembered a time when she would have jumped at the chance to learn more about time magic. When the promise of a mystery would have enthralled her and the opportunity to get lost in a book would have made her giddy. That Hermione felt like a different person.

Depression. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Anxiety. She was familiar with all those terms. It didn’t change the fact that she felt hollow; like the war had split her open, torn out her insides, stitched her back up and sent her through the other end. She had nothing left to give.

The only good memories she had left - the ones that didn’t feel like they belonged to someone else – were tinged with guilt now. And even those were slowly fading away, back to a future where she couldn’t follow.

She thought of Remus. Both present and future.

_How can you be so close, yet so far away?_

It didn’t matter though. It was for the best. She’d caused enough ruin to his life in the future. He didn’t need her to taint his past as well.

The entire week, they’d all continued to keep their distance, including Lily, who’d been cordial at most.

Sirius didn’t approach her again and apart from a nod hello, James Potter didn’t try to speak to her either.

It helped that Hermione skipped breakfast, took her lunches in the kitchen, sat alone in the back during classes and spent her evenings in the Room of Requirement, alternating between grading Transfiguration papers and reading.

She’d never felt lonelier. 

Hermione was at the Burrow.

It was unusually empty; but far from quiet. The hands on the clock ticked, a charmed knife chopped onions on its own, a pot bubbled, and outside noises carried in, through windows thrown wide open. Somewhere, an owl hooted.

“What are you doing?”

Hermione whirled around.

Tonks sat neatly on the Weasley’s worn sofa. The one with a hideous, yet charmingly familiar patch on the side. Her glaring eyes bore into Hermione’s, who took a stunned step backwards.

“Tonks?” She tried to say, but her voice had gone mute.

She looked the same. Her familiar pixie cut was a shocking colour of purple.

“What are you doing?” Tonks repeated, eyes narrowing.

Hermione could only shake her head.

“I died – and for what? So you could mope around in self deprecation? You think you have nothing left to give? What about _life_? You’re _alive_. Do you know what I would give for that?” She scoffed.

“Are you even thinking of the others? What about Remus? Do you even care about him anymore? _Get over yourself_.”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak again, but still, there was no sound. Tonks stood, her robes fell to her sides, her eyes flashed and a silver ring on her left hand glittered.

_Those robes. They were the same ones –_

“Did you hear me, Hermione. Get _up_!”

Hermione gasped awake. She clutched at her pounding chest and rushed to a sitting position.

She’d fallen asleep.

The fire was still crackling, but a quick glance at the grandfather clock in the corner, told her it was well past midnight.

_Shit._

Filch would probably be out patrolling the corridors.

She blew out a breath. Her nerves were still fried, but she forced herself to stand on shaky legs.

Hermione hastily shoved everything in her bag – feeling far too unsteady to perform any magic – before staring down at the discarded tome. It lay exactly where she’d tossed it aside.

Tonks’ words played over.

She sighed, picked it up and slid it into her bag.


End file.
